


Perhaps I am too tame

by cribbins



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell & Related Fandoms, Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV)
Genre: 2 repressed 2 function, British men attempt to speak about their emotions, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2015-07-12
Packaged: 2018-04-08 11:39:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4303485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cribbins/pseuds/cribbins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grant sometimes had cause to wonder of why he would spend so much of his time and somewhat meagre funds tracking a mad magician across Europe. He was not responsible for the man, or if he was, it was merely by default. Certainly not a responsibility he should hold so close to his chest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pazzo Inglese

**Author's Note:**

> "Grant goes to Venice to try to talk Jonathan out of this nonsense. Or is sent to deal with the dangerously crazy magician, since they were friends. He wants to save Jonathan. Jonathan sees he's distressed and wants to comfort him but can't. Just give me all the sad sad ruins of their friendship/moreship."
> 
> Written for the Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell kink meme.

It took several months for the average party of English travellers undertaking the Grand Tour to reach Venice. Largely considered to be the jewel in the crown of the tour, the very apex of Italianate art and decadence, tourists longed to gaze upon Venice with that rather thrilling mix of awe and distaste.

 

Major Colhoun Grant was, by the standards of these travellers, making a rather hasty go of it across the continent, approaching the city after little more than two weeks. He did not stop at Paris or Genoa to marvel at the sights and absorb the culture, as was considered the done thing, but rather marched through the cities with a look of singular impatience, barely stopping for fresh supplies and a luncheon before catching the next coach south.

 

However, Major Grant was not travelling the continent for his own gratification and betterment. Indeed in his more bitter moments he would say that he did not chuse to travel at all, but this would be unfair. He made the decision to go to Venice upon receiving a letter from a friend and former comrade who had disappeared from a Westminster gaol a month previously.

 

He had been relieved to hear that Merlin, that is, Jonathan Strange, was still amongst the living; he had then been angered that he had been left to worry of his fate for so long, then finally disquieted by the actual contents of the letter, which was a rather large and intense collection of emotions to experience within a mere two pages of writing. From the letter he learnt that Strange was travelling quite alone, and it made references to experimenting with a sort of magic that would not serve well his health and already rather fragile faculties. Grant was still unsettled, one month later, by the final conversation that he had had with Strange through the little window of the cell door, moments before Strange had disappeared.

 

Still, Grant sometimes had cause to wonder why he would spend so much of his time and somewhat meagre funds tracking a mad magician across Europe. He was not responsible for the man, or if he was, it was merely by default. Certainly not a responsibility he should hold so close to his chest. He had visited Strange's brother in law, Henry Woodhope, prior to leaving, and found that he was not quite of the same opinion as Grant, that what remained of Strange's friends and family should rally to him and see him home safe. Woodhope seemed quite happy to leave the lion's share of the job in Grant's hands. Grant also wrote to Strange's cousins in Edinburgh, but he had received no reply by the time he had left.

 

Grant would chuse to believe then that he was here because, despite all else, he was a man of honour, though it had never done him very much good. But while others may be able to turn their back on Strange, he - he found he could not. He chastised himself for a fool frequently during his travels, and did so one more time as he opened the doors and was confronted with the unholy stench of Strange's rooms.

 

'Pazzo Inglese' was not a difficult man to track down once Grant found himself within Venice proper. Strange had taken up lodgings in a garret to the south of the main island, and was creating as much of a reputation for himself here in Italy as he had left for himself in England.

 

Upon further exploration, Strange was not currently in, and the smell appeared to be coming from a range of concoctions and powders that littered the writing desk, the contents of which included, among other oddities, a small dead mouse in an alcoholic suspension. A spoon sat next to it, and a glass sat next to that, the whole constellation of which made Grant distinctly nervous. There were also the odd pieces of food abandoned and quietly mouldering out of existence in dark corners of the room, which added to the atmosphere, and spilled substances upon the floor that looked as though they (in Grant's considered opinion) may be variously grappa, red wine and blood. Grant had never been a very fastidious man, but this was beyond even his limits. He was flinging open the shutters to let in light and whatever fresh sea air there was to be had when Strange returned to his rooms.

 

"Merlin," he said, and was alarmed to see Strange startle to a stop and, for the first time, look upon Grant with wild eyes staring through long and dirty hair.

 

"Well," said Grant, after taking a moment to collect himself, "you look terrible."

 

Merlin laughed, a short, breathy huff of a noise. "Grant?" He took a few steps towards Grant as if to confirm something, then nodded, assured. "Grant. Good afternoon, sir. I hope you're well."

 

"Oh yes quite well, and what wonderful weather the Italians enjoy at this time of year," said Grant with an air of trite sarcasm, "Merlin what the _devil_ are you doing here?"

 

Merlin crossed his arms across his chest; this was possibly to cover the tremor in his right hand from Grant. Grant knew to look for it, however, and had spotted it quite plainly as Merlin had walked in. "I could," said Merlin, "ask the same of you. I believe I did not extend an invitation for you to wander into my rooms unannounced."

 

"Yes I cannot imagine you have many visitors," said Grant looking about him. There were a rather erratic collection of mirrors lining the walls. In the dark it had made the place most eerie, with moving shadows in the corner of one's eye. With the windows open they created a rather unnatural brightness in the room that was not entirely flattering to the both of them, Grant rather rumpled and travel worn, Merlin gaunt and dirtied and quite, quite mad looking.

 

"I have been working." Said Merlin, gesturing towards the desk. "I have been busy, I believe I have made a breakthrough this evening last. And so, as much as I am happy seeing you once again, and I am much relieved you are well, I must say good day." Merlin went to sit at his desk. Grant moved a chamber pot to sit on the only available-seeming chair. Merlin looked at him, enquiringly and a little impatiently. "Major Grant..."

 

"Merlin I did not travel for the best part of three weeks to see you for a three minute interview. I am afraid you are rather stuck with me for the foreseeable future."

 

"I did not ask of you to come here."

 

"And yet here I am." Grant laced his fingers together, placed them in his lap, leant back on the chair and crossed his legs.

 

Merlin hesitated, and fidgeted with the items on the desk. "I understand." He nodded "I realise how ungentlemanly I am being, but..." His hand lingered over the bottle containing the mouse. "I have reached a rather critical moment." Merlin looked up at Grant, beseechingly. "I do not want you to see this," he said eventually, though did not bring it upon himself to elaborate.

 

Grant looked at him for a few moments. "If you do not wish for me to see it, then do not do it. It is quite simple."

 

Merlin shook his head. "I'm afraid it is not." He smiled somewhat ruefully. "It is perhaps a distressing thing I do but it is entirely necessary."

 

Grant waited a few moments for Merlin to go on, but when he did not he leant forward with his arms upon his knees and said, "It can not be so necessary as to do this to yourself."

 

Merlin was once again shaking his head, more fervently this time. "No you are quite wrong."

 

"For god's sake Merlin, what are you even doing?"

 

Merlin gave a smile, which started out somewhat embarrassed, but shifted slowly into a quietly demented pride. "I have found a way to make myself mad."

 

There were a few moments of quiet, while Grant attempted to think of a strategy forward, and where Merlin appeared to be watching him closely so as to best judge his reaction, where all could be heard was the ruffle of pigeons' wings out the open window.

 

"Have you considered," Grant started, breaking the silence all of a sudden, "that a man who goes searching for a way to become mad, may not need a way, he may already have arrived there?"

 

"I have," Merlin nodded slowly, "and if I am mad then, simply, I am not mad enough. Not enough to be of any use."

 

Grant stood. "Stop this." He rubbed his forehead and attempted to keep his composure. "Or if you will not stop it then at least delay it for the moment, please, Merlin." While he had the man's attention, he continued. "I have travelled a long way to talk with you, in person. Step out with me for dinner, at least, and let us discuss this. If you convince me that this is truly necessary then I will come back here, and let you do whatever you need to do to make yourself mad. Hellfire I will do it with you." Merlin laughed at this. "You would not be doing it alone then, at least."

 

This quite cut off Merlin's laughter. In fact he seemed to go in quite the other direction, and for a few terrifying moments it seemed as if he was in the grip of some terrible emotion. After a few seconds, to Grant's immense relief, he recovered his composure.

 

"I have travelled nineteen days to find you, Merlin. Give me one hour for a decent dinner and conversation at least."

 

Merlin, still quite mute with feeling, gave a nod of assent and stood, following Grant out into the Venice streets.


	2. Is it so terrible?

They made their way to a cafe that was some distance across the city, but which Strange insisted was adequate and was still willing to accept his patronage. However, having made most the journey without incident, Merlin had stopt quite suddenly by the water's edge. Grant turned about once he realised that he had been addressing an empty space next to him for the last few moments, and he had lost Merlin somewhere along the way. He rounded back and saw he had only left him some hundred feet in the rear, looking out to the sea's horizon.

The closer Grant came to Merlin, the more he could perceive the expression of mute horror written across his face, the whites of his eyes quite visible from some distance away. Grant followed Merlin's line of sight as he approached him and saw - nothing. Nothing that would warrant such a response. Merely a still sea and the sky pinkish at the horizon.

Grant had never been very good at the rather more feminine art of comfort. He suspected, however, that merely looking the other way and waiting for the moment to pass, as was his usual method when confronted with another person's high feelings, would not be an adequate measure in this instance. Somewhat hesitantly he placed a hand at Merlin's back, and was rewarded with a start of surprize as Merlin twitched towards him. With his hand lightly pressed against Merlin he could feel the constant tremble beneath his fingers, as one might feel when they bent to pet a highly-strung dog. In this proximity he could see the compulsive jumps and twitches of Merlin's head upon his neck. For a moment he wondered if this could be some sort of fit. Then Merlin spoke. "You cannot see it?"

He looked again to where Merlin had been staring. "I cannot", he conceded. He pressed his hand a little more firmly against Merlin's back. "Come now," he said in a quiet voice.

"It is something in the distance. In the city you cannot see it - the buildings crowd around and quite block the horizon, but you can feel it. Somewhere beyond your line of sight." He turned to Grant and gave him an apologetic smile. "Here one can see quite far into the distance, and you are able to gather more of an idea of of what you are sensing. It quite took me aback for a moment." He scratched the back of his head in a rather self-conscious gesture, hand momentarily lost in a mop of unruly hair.

"Is it so terrible?" Grant asked, though suspected he would be rather happier not knowing.

"It is huge," said Merlin. "It is too huge to....it is quite dark." He turned to Grant. "I believe it means to swallow me whole." There was a look of such resignation upon his face that it sent a chill through Grant. He had the sudden and ridiculous desire to gather Merlin up in his arms, followed quickly by the sensation of acute embarrassment at the thought having even occurred within the privacy of his own mind. For a moment the confusion of these two impulses left him quite at a loss of how to proceed, until he settled upon saying, "Well it cannot have you. At least not yet, we are quite late for dinner as it is."

This at least drew another laugh from Melin, more genuine. "My apologies, how discourteous to be contemplating the secret horrors of the universe when Major Colquhoun Grant is hungry."

"Quite right." Grant nodded, then with gentle pressure on Merlin's back he began to guide him away. "Come."

The food was indeed adequate at the cafe, and they did indeed concede to accept the patronage of Pazzo Inglese, but aside from these two points the place had little to recommend it. Grant worked his way about something that involved olives and several different cheeses. If one were willing to forgive its innate Italianness, which Grant was still considering, then it was a perfectly passable meal. Merlin picked at his own plate with a reluctant lethargy which made Grant wish to tut and sigh and chide, but he refrained from doing so, since he was not Merlin's mother.

"When do you plan to return to England?" Grant asked him across the table.

"I suppose once my work here is finished," answered Merlin, pushing an olive disaffectedly about his plate.

Grant put down his fork. "Once you have made yourself quite mad, you mean?"

Merlin looked up at this, for a moment confused. "No, the madness - it is important, certainly, but merely a means to an end." Merlin looked down and addressed the next sentence to his dinner. "I mean to raise my wife from the dead."

The dinner did not react to this statement, and neither, for a few moments, did Major Grant. "Merlin," he said. "You cannot."

Merlin looked up at him through pieces of his ragged hair. "I assure you I can."

"Do you forget," Grant leant forward over the table, "that I was present when you raised the Neopolitans from the dead? That I was the one who had to dispose of them after you had failed to do so?"

"Grant..."

"This is not a fate I would wish upon my worst enemy, the thought of inflicting it upon Mrs Strange is unconscionable."

"There are other means of raising the dead," said Merlin with a flat affect.

Grant stared at him. "All of which I imagine are just as rife with consequences."

Merlin shook his head. "It is merely of finding a way, of making minor adjustments. It has to do with making a bargain, I have gathered that much..."

With this Grant reached across the table, quite without meaning to, and clasped Merlin's forearm, resting upon the table. "Jonathan, for god's sake let her be."

Merlin looked at the hand gripping his arm. He said. "I cannot. I am sorry for it but I cannot. There is something about her manner of death that does not sit with me..."

"Of course it did not sit with you, you were her husband..."

"..it was too mysterious, too sudden. There were so many unanswered questions...."

"...All death is sudden, even when one convinces oneself that it is expected."

Merlin wrenched his arm away from Grant's grip, clattering the small table. "You do not understand..."

"I lost my wife, Merlin." This brought Jonathan Strange short, and for a moment Grant knew that he had his full attention upon him. "We did not maybe have the same happy accord that you and Mrs Strange enjoyed, but I loved her in my own way, and she was the mother of my child." Grant's arm was still laid across the table from when Merlin had pulled away, and he drummed his fingers on the tabletop in a sudden fit of awkwardness. "I was quite desolate, at the time. I was a young man, and I could not see what else there would be that would give me such fulfillment in my life as what I had just lost." He sat back in his chair and appraised Merlin, who was looking somewhat bewildered by this. Good. "In time, I found that, to my surprize, there were occupations that could fill my life and give it shape, if I would let them."

Merlin looked at Grant with a sheepish expression. "The war?"

Grant nodded. "Among other things. There are many wives and daughters in England who needed protection from Buonaparte, if not my own."

Merlin sat with this a while, and appeared to think upon it. "If you had the chance...to bring them back, I mean."

Grant shook his head, though he certainly understood the temptation. "I am not asking you if you are capable. I imagine you are. I am asking you if you think it right."

He saw an almost imperceptible nod from Merlin, and saw that he understood the question. Then without warning Strange stood and rapidly quit the cafe. Grant stayed sat and watched him exit. "I am paying for dinner then," he said, largely to himself.


	3. A necessary loss

Merlin had put enough of a head start between himself and Grant that he was always just out of sight, though Grant presumed he could only be a little way ahead. Grant marched across Venice's little picturesque bridges and through its atmospherically gothic alleyways with the same wonder and reverence he had travelled through most of Europe, that is, only paying them attention if they proved themselves an obstacle.

 

Damn Merlin! And damn himself for chusing to care about his fate to such a degree. It was a very bad thing for a soldier to let himself be so terribly invested in the continuing survival of another. As much as the Ancient Greeks bought into that sort of thing, he thought, it was not - here he was obliged to push a rather florid-faced reveller out of his path and increase his pace - it was not the way of the British Army.

 

It was impossible to tell how many minutes he had been behind Merlin in the end, because it was impossible to tell how long Merlin had been standing there, head bowed, arms braced against his desk, looking at the little dead mouse in a glass bottle sitting upon the wooden surface. He had his back to Grant, and did not move or show any sign that he had heard anyone approach until he spoke, rather quietly.

 

"Do you know I was never, while serving under the Duke of Wellington, asked if what I was doing was _right_?" Here he paused. "It was a means to an end, and the end was a good one, and we were all satisfied by that, weren't we. Or rather we did not say anything out loud. Even when my hands began to shake."

 

Merlin spoke this while still bowed over the desk, rather than to Grant, who was stood behind him. He lifted a hand, which trembled. "Like they were outraged at me."

 

Grant walked to the desk and leant lightly against it, so he could look Merlin in the face. He looked more lucid at this moment that he had in the last few hours which Grant had been in his company. Grant crossed his arms, and shrugged. "Many soldiers develop that trembling...It is usually the ones who think too much." Here he looked pointedly at Merlin.

 

Merlin shot him a sharp look. "I am a magician, I must think of magic."

 

"And I am a soldier; but I do not think of killing."

 

Merlin leant heavier against the desk, his fingers curling into his palms until he was resting on his knuckles, his hands tight fists. "How?"

 

"One - simply puts it away. Regrettable, but..."

 

"A means to an end." Merlin was looking at him with a curious hard glint in his eye. "And nobody asks you if it is right."

 

"You cannot make me out to be a hypocrite that easily."

 

"I think I just did." Merlin was now preoccupied with quarrelling with Grant. He was always the most easy to lead astray when he was aiming to win an argument. "Is your dislike, sir, that this is morally wrong, or are you merely uncomfortable that it is not natural?"

 

"It is _one_ of the things I am uncomfortable about." He could not lie about this. Death was a natural and inevitable part of existence. War, unfortunately, was as well. Resurrection was not. "You could do what you pleased to Napoleon's armies, I had no great affection for them, you may have noticed. But it is not hoards of French intent on conquering Europe that we're speaking of, it is your _wife_." Here Grant, rather haltingly, placed his hand on Merlin's shoulder. "And - it is also your mind."

 

"A necessary loss." A phrase taken directly from Wellington. He shrugged his shoulder away from Grant's grip.

 

Grant withdrew his hand as if where it had been resting had been hot to the touch, and cursed his own awkwardness. "Would Arabella think so?" This landed a blow, Merlin flinched at the words, and he would have regretted them if the situation had not been so grave.

 

Merlin pushed away from the desk with a violent shove and turned about. "Do not dare presume to tell me what my wife would think! Currently she thinks nothing. She is dead. At least she would be alive to have an opinion on it."

 

"Pulled out of heaven, to watch you reduced to such a state. It hardly seems kind." Merlin was very much agitated now, and Grant wondered if he had played his gambit too far - instead of shocking him back to reason he had distressed him towards another fit of madness.

 

Merlin grabbed at his hair, his eyes were wild, desperate even, but without that glassy fixity they had. They now seemed to be looking directly at Grant, rather than somewhere beyond him. "What would you have me do?"

 

"Delay." Grant held a hand out, as if he were approaching a startled horse, he realised. "Return to England with me. Consult another magician, if you must. I know it feels as if this is you have only one choice but that is the grief. You might chuse differently. I would have you chuse differently."

 

Merlin shook his head. "No." He went for the desk, for the little bottle containing the mouse suspended in a yellowish liquid. He had stepped away though, and Grant had stayed leant against the desk, so it was an easy matter to swipe the bottle out of Merlin's reach and hold it poised at his own lips.

 

It was Merlin's turn to hold his hands aloft as if Grant were a horse bucking, liable to do damage. "No. Please." He had an expression of panic but his words were soft.

 

"And why not?" Grand asked, the bottle still held in front of him.  "If it's good enough for you, why not I?"

 

"I will not have you do this." Merlin attempted to take a shuffling step forwards, but Grant twitched the bottle towards his mouth and brought Merlin quite short. They held these poses for a few moments. Merlin reaching his arms out, palms faced towards Grant, imploring; Grant looking at Merlin over the top of the foul-smelling bottle.

 

"Not a terribly nice feeling, is it?" Said Grant. Merlin had the good grace to wince. "I told you before that if you are so set upon this then I would not let you do it alone. Now you may have this. I will give it you. But only after I have taken my own half."

 

Merlin shook his head.

 

"Alternatively I can throw it out the window and into the canal. Hopefully it isn't so potent as to send half of Venice mad, but in all honesty I doubt that anybody would notice." His mouth twisted in a grim smile. "They _are_ Italians."

 

He glanced at the bottle. He privately asked himself if, in reality, this was something he was willing to do. It seemed an empty threat when it first occurred to him, but now, looking between Merlin and the bottle he found surprizingly he had the very real intent to carry it through, if necessary. He wondered at that. Merlin must have seen that it was not merely his bluff being called; he looked quite grey.

 

"Leave."

 

"No."

 

Merlin lunged for him. He was taller than Grant, certainly longer in limb, but Grant wrapped an arm about Merlin as he crashed into him and endeavoured to keep the bottle out of reach, at arm's length. From this proximity he could smell the mustiness and sweat, and a smell he had always thought of to himself as desperation, of a man many days out in the field and fighting for his survival. This close he took the opportunity to take his free hand and grip the hair at the back of Merlin's head, and stare at him directly in the face, mere inches apart. "You loved your wife. You love her still. But she is dead, and you must let her go."

 

Merlin shook his head. "I cannot."

 

"And why? Because you miss her?"

 

"It is." And with this Grant could feel Merlin drop in his arm, the tension releasing from his limbs. He shook his head, and looked at Grant, very close. His eyes were wet and Grant realized with a start that Merlin was crying. At the same time his mouth twisted into a grim sort of apologetic smile. "I am responsible."

 

Grant did not immediately answer him, and they stayed in that odd tableau for a few moments. Merlin held in Grant's grip, half supported by it, the bottle in Grant's hand, held away with an extended arm; their faces close enough that Grant could feel Merlin's hot, somewhat garlicky breath upon his face. Once he spoke, it was both as if at the end of a long deliberation and all at once. "Yes. Yes I think I understand that." He swallowed, and was very aware of the clicking noise of it in his throat. He breathed in sharply through his nose. "But you should not be alone."

 

Merlin's head dropt forward, until they found their foreheads rested against one another. The hand that had held the back of Merlin's head had no tension in it, and was now merely resting on Merlin, more of a comfort than a threat. There was, however, a tension very high in his chest, almost a buzzing sensation below his throat. His stomach felt very tight. He wondered if the sensation may be magic being done, until he realised, remembered what this was.

 

"Please." Grant wondered what Merlin was pleading for, whether he was after the bottle still, but Merlin leant in past the imperceptible distance between them and kissed him. At first quite softly, so that Grant could feel the dry chafing of his lips, but once he felt Grant's own hand once again, quite against his will or reasoning, tighten in Merlin's hair and pull him in closer, Merlin pushed against him with more ferocity, indeed pushing him backwards into the desk, where they collided, sending bottles jingling and rolling to the floor.

 

Grant reached out behind him and put the bottle he was holding onto the table, unwilling to break away from Merlin at this exact moment to throw it from the window. With his hand now free he was at liberty to wrap it about Merlin, a hand at the bottom of his back. Merlin shivered beneath it, as he had done before. Grant found him an odd mix of yielding and tense, undecided if he wanted to push against Grant or pull him in, and thus trying to do both. He felt a fluttering against his neck, then there was the trembling hand against the side of his jaw, their lips and teeth pressed together, the discomfiting feeling of Merlin's tears rubbing off onto his own face.

 

Merlin pulled away for a moment, ripping an ungentlemanly noise from Grant at the lack of him, but Merlin returned with a deliberate focus, pressing his lips against Grant's, slightly parted. He could feel the insistent pressure of Merlin's tongue, and parted his own lips, welcoming it in, feeling it slide against his own, an entirely bizarre sensation but almost instinctive. It was intoxicating and it was altogether not enough. He pulled his hand round to rest on Merlin's side, pushed him forwards and then span him about, pinning him roughly against the desk, the length of Grant pushed against his front.

 

Grant considered if this was Merlin's madness, if he had somehow stumbled within its orbit, and it now had a hold on him. If it had, he concluded, then Merlin had an exceptionally wide orbit, it having pulled him here all the way from England. Still, he certainly felt not entirely in control of his actions, somewhere outside of himself. But there were forces other than magic or madness that were capable of that, he thought with a small surge of terror, and as if spurred on by this he leant to get a hand behind the crook of Merlin's knee, raised it, and shoved Merlin back onto the desk with a certain amount of force, so he was sat upon it, his inner thigh pressed against Grant's hip and the heat bleeding through their trousers. Grant's hand was still in the crook of Merlin's knee, trapped there and holding him in place.

 

Merlin murmured something, though it came out as more of a groan, and could have been 'should not have come'.

 

"You should not be alone." Grant answered him, as he did not know what else to say. He was beyond much higher thought, certainly beyond deception, and this phrase seemed to be at the very root of his thinking. It was the only thing that sprang clearly and readily to his mind.

 

Merlin put his hands either side of Grant's head, and then pulled away to look at him. Grant himself was much too dazed to think of much witty to say, though he was sure at times like these it was usually his wont to do so. Merlin looked at him with such a curious expression though, and let out a short, noiseless breath of laughter, though there was no delight in it. Indeed he almost looked as if he were beseeching forgiveness. He placed a hand on Grant's chest.

 

The blow felt not like a tactile object, but like a concentrated punch of gale-force wind that struck him where Merlin's hand had been rested. For what could only have been a fraction of a moment his feet parted with the ground before he fell, skittering and rolling across the room.

 

He came to a halt quite dizzy, quite unsure of anything, merely from the shock of it. He looked up to see Merlin sat on the desk, bottom lip red and swollen, staring back at him. He looked sorry for it, but there was a tightness about the jaw that Grant had come to associate with Merlin steeling himself to do something. Grant went to rise, but found his limbs quite unwilling. He was all over pins and needles, and could not move, and come to think of it could not remember how one were to move if one had set to it. This, he realised, was magic. This is what it was to have magic done to you. He did not care for it.

 

"You said," Merlin started, softly, "that I may chuse differently"

 

Although Grant's limbs were stubbornly unwilling to move, he found he could speak. "If you want it."

 

Merlin reached for the bottle that Grant had placed back on the desk, lifted it to his lips and had almost drained its contents by the time Grant overcame his surprize and cried for him to stop. "I cannot want it. I am sorry." He threw the bottle with the remainder of the tincture, and the sad, grey little mouse now slumped unsuspended, against the wall, where it shattered.


End file.
